Murder Upon a Midnight Clear
by cjnwriter
Summary: It's time for some awesomeness—Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness, in fact! Prepare for 31 days of Sherlock Holmes and Christmas spirit!
1. Fatal Foliage

**A/N: I was a hair too late in submitting my prompts to get in on the mix for days 1 and 2, so special thanks to SheWhoScrawls for providing me with a couple! :)**

 **December 1: "Roses" (from SheWhoScrawls)**

* * *

 _Watson's POV_

December the first of the year eighteen ninety-five found Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself at the close of another successful case. Mr. Cartwright, an American millionaire newly moved to England, had just been taken into custody by none other than our good friend Inspector Lestrade, for the charge of willful murder.

Now Holmes stood before us in Cartwright's drawing room, explaining the last of the details to Lestrade and myself.

"…And thus Mr. Cartwright had both the motive, and the opportunity," concluded Sherlock Holmes, rising from his chair, and crossing the room to the window.

"But how was the poisoning carried out?" I asked, mystified despite his explanation.

"That is where the realm of fact ends and we find ourselves at the gateway to the land of conjecture," said Holmes, observing something outside the window. "However, if pressed, I suspect he used the medium of the curiously placed bouquet of roses. A curious method, to be sure, but you would find that I have a few cases in my records with stranger methods than this."

"Well, well…I never would have thought it," Lestrade muttered, shaking his head. He added aloud, "I will certainly take your advice, Mr. Holmes. But how do you know it was the roses?"

Holmes gave a little twitch of a smile as he turned away from the window, hands folded behind his back with the air of a professor about to begin a lecture. "While conducting an investigation, it is crucial to pay attention to all the events that led to the conclusion, not just those that were criminal. An hour before the death of Mr. Cartwright's landlady, a bouquet of roses was delivered to the house. Cartwright's alibi was indisputable, and yet he was the only one with any reason to wish ill on the woman. Thus, the roses were the means of doing her in. Perhaps the poison was on the thorns, or perhaps the greenery." He turned his attention to Lestrade directly. "I would strongly recommend putting every effort into finding where he disposed of these flowers, but wear gloves!"


	2. Greenhouse

**December 2: "Greenhouse" (from SheWhoScrawls)**

* * *

"Good heavens!" cried Watson upon entering the Baker Street sitting room. "I have only been absent for a day!"

Rich dark soil filled numerous jars upon the floor, surrounding Sherlock Holmes. He glanced at his fellow-lodger.

"Everything I do has definite purpose behind it," said Holmes blithely, pouring a pale blue substance from a test tube into a jar half filled with dirt.

"Excellent," Watson muttered under his breath. The whole room smelled of dirt, some of which had made its way onto the carpet. "Is this an experiment designed to bring a criminal to justice?" the doctor asked, cocking an eyebrow at his friend. "Or are we starting our own greenhouse?"

"Neither," said Holmes with a chuckle. "I'm merely testing a little hypothesis. Nothing related to a case, or becoming a plantsman, I assure—agh!" The mixture had begun to smoke.

"Holmes!" Watson exclaimed, rushing to the detective's side.

"Oh, blast!" said Holmes, waving the fumes away from his face. "What an…"

"Unfortunate result to your hypothesis?" Watson suggested, quickly opening a nearby window.

"So it would seem," replied Holmes dryly, bringing the fuming jar towards the air of the window.

Experimentation complete for the day, Holmes and Watson went out for dinner. It was some time before the room smelt normal, even with the help of the wind's blowing.

* * *

 **A/N: I must admit, I probably spent a little too much time fiddling with the format of this one, but I think it was worth it. The first letter of each paragraph spells "greenhouse",** ** _and_** **I made it a 221b format (221 words, the last one beginning with "b").**

 **Hope everyone's December is going well!**


	3. New Friends

**December 3: "Gladstone meets Toby" (from I'm Nova)**

* * *

 ** _Watson_**

* * *

It had been a long day of tending to patients at my practice, and so sitting in my chair at home, next to my wife and next to the fire, came as a wonderful relief. Gladstone, the small puppy Holmes had given to Mary and myself for our one-year anniversary just two weeks before, was exploring the sitting room. He was an energetic and excitable little dog, but relatively well behaved.

At half past ten o'clock, there came a loud knock at the door. The staff was in bed, so I answered the door, to find a dripping-wet Sherlock Holmes standing outside the door.

"I have a favor to ask," said my old friend. I now noticed he was accompanied by Toby, the dog with the incredible sense of smell, who had more than once proved vital in our investigations.

"Whatever have you been doing?" I asked incredulously, eyeing with mixed curiosity and exasperation the puddle he was making on my front step.

"I promise I shall explain all of that later, on the condition that you keep Toby here for the night. He has done what I need him to do, and I will not be in a position to take care of him until I return—which should not be too terribly long. The game is afoot, Watson!"

My mind was such a whirl of questions that hardly before I noticed what was happening, Holmes had pressed Toby's leash into his hand, flashed me a quick, excited grin, and vanished into the chilly winter night.

Mary cast a curious glance at both Toby and myself when I reentered the sitting room.

"What is Mr. Holmes doing out so late?" Mary asked.

I shook my head. "I wish I knew. And I wish I knew what the deuce he has done that's caused him to be dripping wet!" I sat heavily down in my chair.

"Dripping wet," Mary echoed. "Well, I suppose he has done stranger things."

I gave a snort, thinking, _Oh, Mary, you have no idea_. My thoughts were momentarily full of bullet holes in the walls, criminal relics in the butter dish, and malodorous chemical experiments, but they soon turned a darker direction. "I hope he isn't in any danger."

"I am sure if there was any danger, he would have taken you with him," said Mary comfortingly. "Gladstone! Leave him alone!"

I followed her gaze, to see that Toby had flopped on the carpet next to the fire, and Gladstone was now pawing at him, apparently wanting Toby to get up and play. Gladstone ignored my wife's remonstrance, and continued to cheerfully paw at Toby's ears.

"Poor Toby must be exhausted," I said, snatching up little Gladstone bringing him back to my chair, petting him. "I wonder how much of London they traversed in search of Holmes's quarry."

"Likely much of it," said Mary. "Even if he began at nightfall, he must have been out for at least four or five hours."

I nodded, attempting to keep Gladstone from going after Toby again. Unfortunately, the puppy wriggled loose and bounded up to Toby's legs, giving one a playful nibble.

"Gladstone!" I exclaimed, once more yanking the energetic little dog away. Gladstone gave a little yip of protest.

Toby slowly dragged himself to his feet, and wandered into the corner of the room, giving me an accusatory look the entire way.

"It's hardly my fault, Holmes is the one who left you here," I told Toby, but he continued to mope, eyes fixed on me.

"I think it's time I get some sleep. And you as well," said Mary.

I hesitated for a moment, indecisive.

"Or you can wait up for Holmes to return," said Mary with a smile. "It is up to you, of course. But try not to fall asleep in the chair again—you know what horrible neck pains you have when that happens."

"Yes, of course, Mary," I replied, yawning. "Good night."

"Good night," she replied, and headed to bed.

I held Gladstone in my lap for a while to keep him from going after poor Toby again, and the little puppy soon fell asleep. I carefully set him down near the warmth of the fire. Toby meandered back to his place by the fire and fell asleep soon after that.

I whiled away the time reading and ignoring my eyelids as they grew steadily heavier. It was when I found myself reading the same sentence over and over again, without ever being able to divine any meaning from it that I decided that perhaps I ought to give up my vigil and retire to bed. A glance at the clock told me that it was nearly three in the morning. _Perhaps I can go another quarter hour_ , I thought.

The next thing I knew, I was awakening to the sound of a knock at the door. I cast a drowsy glance at the clock: half past four. There was another bout of knocking, more urgent this time. _Holmes!_ I thought, suddenly remembering the events of much earlier in the evening. I rushed to the door and opened it.

It was indeed Sherlock Holmes who stood on my doorstop, no longer dripping wet but now smelling strongly of fish.

"Come in, come in," I said, my voice thick from sleeping even that short amount of time.

"You really must not fall asleep in your chair like that," Holmes said as we walked to the sitting room.

I was baffled for a moment, but then realized I was still mostly dressed, and had been massaging the back of my neck. "You really should not spend so much time in the company of fish," I replied, sitting back down in my chair and gesturing to my friend to sit in another.

"Ah," said Holmes. "I apologize for the smell. I rather forgot about it, to be perfectly honest. Now, how is Toby getting along?"

"Tired, but he seemed all right," I said, glancing toward where Toby lay near the fireplace. I noticed that now Gladstone had wriggled up next to the older dog, and both were sleeping soundly.

Holmes followed my gaze, and smiled. "He seems to have found himself a little friend in Gladstone."

I smiled as well. "I believe so."

* * *

 **A/N: It's likely that the reason Holmes was out all night and now smells like fish is worthy of a whole story of its own. So perhaps I will finish it another day. :)**

 **Also - special thanks to my friend Lily for helping me keep the dogs in character!**


	4. Evil Twin

**December 4: "Crimes are being committed by a Father Christmas look-alike. Holmes takes the case to prove a point." (from Wordwielder)**

* * *

 ** _Watson_**

 _Third one this week!_ I thought, and must have said it aloud because Holmes gave me a questioning glance from his chemistry set across the room. I set down the newspaper I had been reading upon the table, next to my empty breakfast dishes.

"There's been another house robbery," I explained, "by someone reportedly having a large white beard, and dressed in all red and white fur. The press is describing him as Father Christmas's Evil Twin."

Holmes gave a snort. "How lurid of them. And there have now been three this week?"

"Yes," I replied, and shook my head sadly. "Quite besides those who suffered from having their possessions stolen, I feel for the poor children who witnessed the break-ins occurring. During all three crimes, the only witnesses were children under the age of six. It's a bad business."

"It is most unfortunate," said Holmes, rising from his chair and beginning to pace across the sitting room, "that those children have been laboring under the delusion that there is a benevolent, jolly Father Christmas with a white beard and the large read coat, that is going to come to their house in the dead of night and give presents to the good little children. No, Watson, I do not wish to argue over this again; we have done so for many years now. But mark my words; those children will be the better for being disillusioned."

I shook my head. "I really cannot believe that is a benefit to them."

"Perhaps we should speak to the children ourselves before drawing conclusions," said Holmes. I really could not tell if he was joking or not. "Tell me Watson, who is handling this case?"

"I believe speaking to the children would only prove that you are wrong… "I skimmed through the article once more. "Ah! Here it is—'The case is in the capable hands of Inspector Lestrade, and it is expected that he will have unraveled this mystery and captured the culprit within days'."

"Hm," said Holmes, ceasing his pacing and taking a seat near the window.

"Do you suppose he will consult us?" I asked Holmes.

The detective's back was to me as he looked out the window onto the street below. "Yes, I believe so."

"How soon?" I asked.

Holmes turned to me and gave little twitch of a smile. "Oh, in approximately thirty seconds."

A moment later, Mrs. Hudson was showing a very haggard-looking Lestrade into our sitting room.

Holmes rubbed his hands together and cast me a very satisfied glance. "I'll take the case."


	5. Dinner at Simpson's

**December 5: "A game of cat and mouse" (from KnightFury)**

* * *

 **A/N: I'm not sure I really followed the prompt, but for some reason this is where my imagination took it. I'm not entirely satisfied with it, but here it is…**

* * *

 ** _Holmes_**

In the days following the arrest of Col Moran, Watson grew much more distant with me. Soon an entire week had passed, during which I neither saw nor heard from him at all. I had thought my friend of old would be glad to move back in with me, but it was beginning to appear that he did not even wish to see me.

I hardly knew what to do, and turned to Mrs. Hudson for advice.

"Give him time," she said, pouring me a cup of tea. "His poor heart will need some adjusting to these new circumstances. The man grieved long and hard, and then moved on. And now with you back, well, it will be a difficult transition. You can't expect to chase after him, like a cat after a mouse, and make him come back to you. My best advice is to simply wait a while."

My heart sank a little. I did not want to wait. I only wanted my Watson back.

A week later, my old friend Lestrade called at my rooms, mostly for advice for a case with which he was engaged, but our talk soon drifted to old times and to Watson.

"How is Dr. Watson faring? Have you seen much of him lately?" he asked me.

I was not entirely sure how to answer. "I—I must confess I have not, and I am at my wit's end what to do about it. Mrs. Hudson advised me to give him time, and I am doing my best to do so. But I am beginning to feel as though he does not wish to see me."

Lestrade frowned. "Well, he is probably still adjusting to the change of you, well, having you back. Perhaps you ought to talk to him, gently, of course. Invite him to dinner, maybe. I know Dr. Watson, and I refuse to believe that he wants nothing to do with you. My best advice is to have a frank, but gentle conversation with him. But it will take some time for things to return to any sort of a normal, and if he needs space, you must give it to him."

After thinking about it for several hours after Lestrade left, I decided to take the leap and call upon Watson. But even though I arrived past the Doctor's posted hours, there were still a number of patients waiting for his assistance. I sat in a chair, not too close to any of the ill people, and careful not to touch anything.

A small boy, who I recognized as the younger sibling of one of my Irregulars, wandered up to me and tapped me on the knee. "Tha' you, Mr. 'Olmes?"

"It is indeed," I replied, to anxious to bother forcing a smile.

He gave me a gap-toothed grin. "Cor! I bet the Doctor's really happy you're alive now!"

I shrugged. "Perhaps."

The boy's smile faded. "He's still sad, isn't 'e?"

"Tom! Leave the gentleman alone," said a woman, apparently the boy's mother, rising to bring him back.

"He's quite all right," I said.

"If you're certain," she said dubiously.

The boy gave me a serious look. "You ought ta do something nice for 'im. Doctor Watson, I mean."

"I was thinking of inviting him to dinner," I said.

Tom's little face crinkled in concentration for a moment, then he nodded. "That sounds loike a good idea. Jus' be nice to 'im."

"I intend to," I replied. "Thank you, Tom."

"Yer welcome," he replied, flashing me another grin. "Good to meet you, Mr. 'Olmes."

I waited another hour until Watson had seen to all of his patients.

"Evening, Holmes," he said, obviously exhausted but trying to conceal it. "Are you unwell, or is there a case?"

"Neither," I said slowly. "I suppose this is a social call, more than anything. I—I was wondering if dinner at Simpson's tonight would much averse to you to—I would pay—but I observe you are tired, and if you wish, it can wait unti—"

"Oh, no," Watson interjected. "I would not mind a little dinner. I'm famished, and it is good to see you."

His tone struck me as a little colder than the Watson I was used to.

"Well…I shall meet you there, then. Seven o'clock?"

"Sure," Watson replied.

"Thank you," I said somewhat awkwardly, and made a hasty retreat, my heart in my boots. There was nothing my friend had said that had struck me as strange; it was the distant tone in which he said it. I had spent three years on the Continent while he was in Britain, and yet I never had felt further from him than I did then.

By the time I was waiting for him at five minutes to seven at Simpson's, I was convinced that Mrs. Hudson had been right and I ought to have given him more time to himself rather than chasing him down and cornering him like this.

But it was too late, and we were soon seated at our table by a window, the waiter had taken our orders, and there was nothing left to do but talk.

"So," I began, unsure of where to begin. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," Watson replied coldly.

Apparently that was not a good question. Of course not! His pride would not allow him to answer that honestly. How could I have forgotten? I would have to try another approach.

"You seem to be keeping busy," I ventured.

"Yes," Watson replied curtly.

We fell silent again. This was a strange silence, unlike ones I was used to sharing with my friend. In the old days, our silences were not so deucedly uncomfortable!

Our food arrived, and we began our meal. The excellent food did not taste nearly so good as it should have. I resisted the urge to squirm uncomfortably in my seat, trying desperately to think of what I could say.

"I am sorry to have troubled you," I said at length. "Perhaps I ought to have waited, but I confess I wished to see you." With an effort, I added, "My dear fellow, I…I have missed you."

There was a long pause. Watson stared down at his barely touched food.

"Holmes," he said at length, "I—I do not wish to offend you, but I must be honest. I am simply not ready to move back in with you."

I was taken aback, struck dumb for the moment. I had not even dreamed of mentioning such a thing! "I completely understand, old fellow. It was not my intention to suggest it."

"Oh. " It was Watson's turn to look surprised. "I thought…" He fell silent and shook his head.

I gave him a questioning glance, wondering what on earth he had been thinking.

Watson flushed red and set down his fork. "It was horribly unjust of me, but I, well, I assumed that you'd invited me to dinner to…request that I move back in with you."

"Of course not!" I said, more than a little hurt. "Of course I would be delighted if you would, but all in your own time. I know…I know I my actions of the past have hurt you deeply, and I can offer no excus—"

Watson waved his hand, brow furrowed. "No, no. There is no need to apologize for that any more, old fellow. But you are sure that you can wait for me to move back in? Your finances—"

"Are sufficient enough to allow you to take any length of time that you need," I assured him.

Watson breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you." He was quiet for a moment, staring down at his food. When he met my eyes again, there was a twinkle in them I had not seen in years. "It is good to see you, my dear fellow."

And with that, I knew I had my dear Watson back.


	6. It's a Trap!

**December 6: "A topple down the stairs" (from Hades Lord of the Dead)**

* * *

 **A/N: Takes place sometime between Watson's marriage & Final Problem**

* * *

 ** _Holmes_**

When I received a telegram from Watson one evening reading _URGENT. COME TO MY HOUSE IMMIDIATELY. JW.,_ I was concerned, to say the least. Watson rarely sent me telegrams, and I had never known him to send one with so little information, or to sign it with his initials.

But needless to say, I dropped everything and rushed to his home, slipping my pistol into a pocket before leaving. When I arrived, I raised a hand to knock at the door, then hesitated, noticing signs that the door had recently been forced. The combination of this discovery with the strange telegram combined to give me a very uneasy feeling indeed.

Instead of knocking or forcing my own way in, I slipped around the corner, and climbed carefully over the garden wall and into the Watsons' yard, creeping carefully up to the back of the house. There was a light in one of the windows that I could see, the one of the spare bedroom of the upstairs. Of all of the windows that should be lit, it was even stranger that this should be the one.

More and more, I began to feel as though this were a trap that had been devised for me, using Watson and his wife as bait. I felt my stomach churn a little, and wished I had not eaten dinner.

Climbing as agilely as I could up the downspout, I was able to look in the window from a position where I was confident I could not be seen, though my muscles protested the action. Inside, I saw with a shock of horror the last of Morrison's bank-robbing gang, Enoch Gerald and James Escott. Gerald paced the room, and Escott sat languidly on the bed, a bloodied knife in hand.

Craning my neck, I saw both Mr. and Mrs. Watson tied back to back in chairs. And that Mary had a bleeding slit cut across her face. I glanced at the knife in Escott's hand and the cut on Mary's face, feeling a rush of anger surge through my veins. How _dare_ they treat a woman in that manner, and of all women, my dear friend's beloved wife!

I calmed myself, and pressed my face close to the edge of the window, but could hear nothing. From what I was able to see, however, it appeared that Gerald was questioning them about something.

But how could I get into the room? I examined the window; it appeared to be one that could be easily forced open. Simple enough. What I should do once I was in the room, now those were the steps I would need to carefully consider.

Gereld had apparently said something, and Watson shook his head in reply. Gerald seemed to repeat the same question—I wished I could read lips, perhaps that ought to be my next study—and Watson gave some short answer. I watched in horror as Gerald backhanded him across the face, a wicked sneer on his own countenance.

I felt a surge of rage unlike any I had felt in years, and all carefully concocted rescue plans were cast aside. These blackguards had forced my hand. I thrust open the window, and threw myself into the room. I pounced upon Gerald, revolver in hand, and hit him in the side of the head with it. He crumpled to the floor.

Escott gave a little shriek, threw open the door, and ran to the top of the stairs. With a growl, I hurled myself at him, and we tumbled down the stairs together. When we reached the bottom, all my limbs were in pain, but I saw Escott pulling his knife and quickly grabbed him by the wrist, forcing him to let it go, but not before he managed to make a gash in my arm. I gave an involuntary yell as the knife clattered to the floor, and I looked round for my revolver, but did not see it. No matter. I curled my hand into a fist, and smashed it into Escott's head.

"HOLMES!" I vaguely heard the Watson's yell as I watched a stream of blood run down my arm. It occurred to me that my friend had probably been shouting all the time.

"I'M ALL RIGHT!" I called back, and ran quickly back up the stairs.

"My God…" said Watson as I reentered the room. "What just happened?"

"Not to worry, Watson," I said, carefully concealing my injured arm behind my back. "Mr. Escott and I seem to have had a little topple down the stairs."


	7. Irene Returns

**December 7: "Irene is back. Why?" (from I'm Nova)**

* * *

 ** _Watson_**

* * *

One evening, when I had just settled down with a yellow-backed novel and Holmes with a French treatise about fingerprints, Mrs. Hudson showed a young lady into the sitting room. Her dress was black, and she wore a veil that partially concealed her face. Her expression was troubled, and she wrung her hands.

"Good evening, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she said. Her voice seemed vaguely familiar, but I could not place it.

"Likewise," Holmes replied. "Please, sit down." He gestured to a chair, and seated himself in the one across. I sat in the seat next to him.

"You have come from America," said Holmes, "but your accent is not entirely American. What brings you back to England?"

"I have gotten myself into some little trouble," she said slowly.

"I am afraid I must ask for a bit more information," said Holmes, "both about you and about your plight."

"I—I am the prime suspect in the murder of my husband."

"And he is…?" Holmes asked.

She took a slow deep breath, and then she spoke. "Mr. Godfrey Norton," said she, and with a deft motion she had swept back her veil to reveal the beautiful face of Mrs. Irene Norton, neé Adler.

I gave an involuntary intake of breath.

"I have made my share of mistakes, but marrying Godfrey was not one of them," said Irene. "And I swear to you that I had no hand in his death. Mr. Holmes, you are my last hope. Please, will you help me?"

"Yes," Holmes replied. "I will."


	8. Three Christmases

**December 8: "Holmes realizes that he doesn't dislike Christmas as much as he used to." (from I'm Aleine Skyfire)**

* * *

 ** _Holmes_**

* * *

I had never been one for merrymaking during the Christmas season. In many years past, I was always bored by the decorating, annoyed by the caroling, and frustrated by others' insistence that I "have some Christmas cheer".

But during the first Christmas after my supposed death at the Reichenbach Falls, I began to rethink my views. Much to my surprise, I found myself missing the decorations Mrs. Hudson and Watson would always insist we use to "brighten up" our old rooms.

When the second Christmas arrived, I was even missing the carolers who would sing in the streets of London. It had been far too long since I had heard a Christmas carol sung, or at least one sung in English.

By the third Christmas, I began to think that if I were back in London with my dear old Watson, I would be much cheerier than I ever had been during prior Christmases.

It was much to Watson's surprise, therefore, that during the first Christmas season after my return that I took part in the decorating, I organized our little band of Baker Street Irregulars into a caroling party, and even went so far as to learn several joyful little Christmas carols on my violin to play for Watson and Mrs. Hudson.

"I never expected this of you!" said Watson, glowing with delight, once I had finished my final violin solo on that Christmas Eve. "That is to say, I am very glad, but you have never been in such high spirits during Christmases in years past."

I gave a shrug, pleased to see my dear friend so cheerful. "No indeed. I believe the past three Christmases gave me a tad more appreciation for such things."


	9. Stolen Stradivarius

**December 9: "In the orchestra pit" (from Garonne)**

* * *

 **A/N: I did some research, so I hope everything is historically accurate. My apologies if there is anything not quite right.**

 **Also, I'm still working on my Lestrade voice, so hopefully it is decent enough for you to enjoy the story. I know I enjoyed writing it.:)**

* * *

 ** _Lestrade_**

My wife, Helen, has always had a special love for music and drama, and so attending operas was a favorite pastime of hers. For the first time during our marriage, her birthday happened to fall on the same day as one of my precious few days off, and so I purchased tickets for the both of us to attend a performance at the Covent Garden Theatre. The tickets were a little more expensive than I would have liked, but her excitement made the cost well worth it.

We were some of the first to arrive and spent some time watching the other theatregoers filter in. Our seats were closer to the front than I was used to, commanding a wonderful view of the stage, and even of some of the orchestra pit.

Helen nudged me, and nodded backward to our right. "Is that Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson?"

I followed her gesture, and saw two men seating themselves some little distance away. "I'm not sure…" The taller one turned for a moment, and I was able to catch a glimpse of his face. It was undoubtedly Holmes. "Ah! Yes, it is them for sure." More to myself than to her, I commented, "Though it is strange that they are here."

Helen's brows furrowed in confused.

"Mr. Holmes told me yesterday he would have the stolen Stradivarius found by tonight," I explained. "I thought he would be busy recovering the violin, not attending an opera."

"Perhaps he already found it," my wife suggested.

"No, I asked Davis, the constable, to notify me straight away if he did."

After all, I wanted to know as soon as possible whether it was Hopkins or I who won our little wager regarding Holmes's results. Young Hopkins was convinced that Holmes would do exactly as he said and would have the violin in his possession by the end of today. I, on the other hand, doubted it. The circumstances surrounding the crime were such that there were upwards of twelve or more people who had the opportunity to steal the violin.

"Well, perhaps you will have a chance to ask Mr. Holmes about it during the intermission," she said.

"Perhaps." I was still rather irked by Holmes's insistence that I was on completely the wrong track in this case. His results were often a bit more correct than mine, I could not deny, but that did not mean that I was wrong in this instance. Though his presence at the theatre made me curious enough that I determined I would ask him about it later.

I then put the matter out of my mind. I was here to enjoy a performance with my dear wife. Work could—and would—wait.

The opening scenes of the performance were excellent. I enjoy a good opera on occasion, and I always enjoy seeing Helen so wonderfully happy.

As soon as the first act was over, I turned my attention to the direction whence we had seen Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson before. To my surprise, their seats were empty.

"Hm! They've gone," I said, wondering how they could have left so quickly, and why.

"Well, they are sure to come back before the second act," my wife returned.

My curiosity turned to concern when the second act commenced and the pair of them had not returned to their seats.

"Where do you suppose they went?" my wife whispered anxiously.

I shook my head. "No idea. I do hope everything is all right." As irksome as Holmes could be at times, I had begun to grow a little fond of him, and of course I wished no harm to anyone as kind and noble as Dr. Watson.

Several minutes later, Helen nudged me again, and pointed covertly towards the orchestra pit. "That man, just there…" she whispered, pointing to the far left side of the strings section.

It took me a moment to see where she was pointing, but I soon followed her, and took a closer look at the tall gentleman playing the violin. I gave a loud involuntary gasp, causing the elderly gentleman in the row in ahead of us to cast me an ill-tempered glance.

Unless I was much mistaken, there sat Sherlock Holmes!

"Why, it's Mr. Holmes!" I whispered, looking earnestly among the musicians for Dr. Watson. I did not have to look far: he sat in the clarinet section, just a couple chairs from the detective. "And there is the Doctor." I pointed him out, but Helen had apparently already spotted them.

"What on earth are they doing?" Helen whispered.

I hadn't a clue. "Playing in the orchestra, apparently." I had known Holmes could play the violin well, but I had never heard of Watson taking an interest in the clarinet. The whole situation seemed very strange indeed.

I confess I missed much of the remainder of the opera, as my mind continually wandered back to the detective and the doctor in the orchestra pit, wondering what they could possibly be doing there.

Once the performance was over, my wife and I fought the crowd headed for the doors, looking instead for where our new orchestral musicians would be found. It took little wandering, for soon we ran straight into the duo in a hall.

"Inspector Lestrade!" Dr. Watson greeted me cheerily.

"Dr. Watson!" I replied, shaking him firmly by the hand. "It is always good to see you. And you as well, Mr. Holmes."

I noticed Holmes had a violin case in his hands. "I believe I have acquired something that might be of interest to you, Inspector," he said, and carefully opening the case, he revealed a beautiful violin.

"Is that…?" Helen gasped.

"Yes indeed," Mr. Holmes replied, with the air of a performer having completed a clever conjuring trick.

"But how?" I asked. "We saw you during the first act, but during the second, you were down in the orchestra pit! By the way, Doctor, I didn't know you played the clarinet."

"I don't," Dr. Watson replied, with a chuckle, "but today I learned how to pretend to do so. But I suppose you would prefer to hear the story from the beginning."

"I certainly would!" I replied.

Holmes broke in. "Then would you—and your wife, if she wishes it—mind paying us with a visit at our rooms in Baker Street? I believe we should all be more comfortable there than standing here."

Helen and I gladly accepted the offer, and after a short cab ride, found ourselves comfortably seated by the fire at 221B.

"Mr. Holmes, I've seen you work out a good many strange problems, but this one takes the cake," I admitted. "How on earth did you know to find the violin at that particular theatre during that show?"

"By stringing together a short series of related observations," Holmes explained, beginning to pace before us. "First, that someone who steals a Stradivarius will have a difficult time doing anything with it, as they are so easily recognizable. Second, that a man by the name of Murphy playing in this orchestra lost his violin yesterday morning, and believes it to have been stolen. Third, that this Murphy fellow is acquainted with Cunningham, one of the eight people circumstantially most likely to have stolen the violin. Fourth, that Mr. Murphy and Cunningham had recently had a rather brutal falling out. Therefore, my inference was Mr. Cunningham had taken Murphy's violin, with the intention to make sure the replacement—for he would need a replacement, to play in tonight's show—was the Stradivarius. No doubt he wished to frame Murphy for the crime, sell Murphy's own violin, and claim the reward for recovering the Stradivarius."

"But now," Watson broke in, "Cunningham has lost his stolen treasure, and the reward he might have gained from turning in Murphy. It only remains to capture Cunningham, who must not be too far, if he intended to frame his acquaintance and claim the reward."

"Incredible," my wife intoned next to me.

Holmes's cheeks colored a little at the sincere compliment. "I readily admit that this conclusion was a slight leap, even for me, but I decided that there could be no harm in attending such an excellent opera if I were wrong." He rubbed his hands together. "Now, is anything left unclear to you?"

It took a moment for all of that information to sink in, but a moment later, I thought of the most obvious question.

"What _was_ the purpose in your and Watson's playing in the second act of the show?" I asked. "You have not explained that."

"Ah," Holmes replied. "Yes, that was not entirely planned. You see, when we told Murphy that his borrowed violin was the missing Stradivarius, he collapsed into a dead faint. Not even Watson's medical skills could revive him in time for the second act. As for Watson and the clarinet, Murphy's friend the clarinetist saw us with the unconscious Murphy, and jumped to the unfortunate and completely erroneous conclusion that we had attacked his friend. He rushed at me, and unfortunately, my reflexes were rather too quick and I sprained his wrist. As a result, the orchestra was short a violinist and a clarinetist, and the conductor grabbed us both at a moment's notice to fill the void."

"I believe he actually pushed us into the orchestra pit," Watson added. "The man was in a panic. We could hardly say 'no' to him."

"The two musicians, are they—?" Helen began.

"They are all right now, for the most part," Dr. Watson replied. "I saw to it that they were before we left. Our violinist has fully recovered, and his friend the clarinetist should have full use of his hand within two or three weeks."

I nodded. "Well, you apparently had quite an interesting evening."

"And you, apparently, owe Inspector Hopkins two pounds."

"How on earth did you—?"

"Ha!" Holmes gave a short bellow of laughter. "Young Hopkins told me of your wager earlier today."


	10. An Unexpected Card

**December 10: "Space" (from Hades Lord of the Dead)**

* * *

 **A/N: Credit for this idea goes to my mom.**

* * *

One morning, several days before the Christmas of the year 1881, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson sat eating their breakfast. Watson looked through the mail, while his fellow-lodger pored over a newspaper.

"Here's a Christmas card for you, Holmes," said Watson, tossing the envelope down on Holmes's side of the table.

Holmes examined it curiously. He didn't normally receive Christmas cards, and both of them knew it. He glanced up and saw Watson trying to watch him discreetly.

"Whoever is it from? If you don't mind my asking, of course," said Watson, now looking on rather more obviously.

Holmes grabbed a butter knife and deftly ripped the envelope open. The card itself was not of cheap quality, nor was it of extraordinary quality, featuring a small image of a snowman smoking a pipe, and the words "Merry Christmas". He opened the card.

 _Sherlock,_

 _I am glad, dear brother, to learn that you have moved to Baker Street, as it can only be more habitable than those awful quarters in Montague Street. The newspapers have informed me that you have been involved in several successful cases of late as well. It is gratifying to see that you are now making a habit of utilizing that space between your ears._

 _Mycroft Holmes_

Watson continued to cast him curious glances.

The younger Holmes gave a small snort. "Never mind, Doctor," he said.


	11. Old Wounds

**December 11: "Old wounds cast long shadows." (from Madam'zelleGiry)**

* * *

 ** _Watson_**

 _It is not easy to express the inexpressible._

I remembered Stamford's words regarding Sherlock Holmes for a good many years after he spoke them, and they have, on many occasions, rung true.

Holmes was a difficult man to understand. For the first several months of our sharing rooms in Baker Street, he never ceased to surprise me. Sometimes he seemed to be a reasoning and calculating machine, sometimes a musician, sometimes an actor, or a chemist, or a boxer, or a swordsman…there seemed to be no end to his hidden talents, except in the category of understanding.

For one of the most—and in my personal opinion, _the_ most—brilliant mind to ever enter the field of detection, he was sometimes surprisingly dense when it came to his actions towards other people. At times, he could deduce with a glance everywhere I had been and everything that I had done, but later on, he would scrape away at his violin, oblivious to my growing irritation at the discordant noises he was producing.

I soon either grew accustomed to—or learned to put up with—most of the man's quirks most of the time, but he constantly seemed to be doing something that could get on my nerves.

It was much to my surprise, therefore, when one day, Sherlock Holmes did none of these things. It was July 27th of 1881, when my mind was filled with the horrors of the tragic battle of Maiwand,.

That day, there was no listless scraping on the violin, or malodorous chemical experiments. He did not complain loudly about the state of criminal London, Scotland Yard, or anything else. No criminal relics were found in the butter dish or anywhere else, and even his papers had been secreted in more out-of-the-way locations.

Holmes never breathed a word all day about the reasons for his actions, but I knew he must have known, somehow.

"Thank you," I ventured to say, during dinner. "For today."

He gave a stiff nod, not meeting my eyes.

Nothing more was said of the matter, but at least he knew his actions did not go unnoticed or unappreciated.

* * *

 **A/N: Although none of it made its way into this story, I read several webpages about the Battle of Maiwand… very, very horrible stuff. Poor Watson! :(**


	12. Too Early

**December 12: "Sleigh Ride." (from Riandra)**

* * *

 **A/N: Hooray, I did another 221B!**

* * *

 ** _Watson_**

"Watson," a voice whispered through the darkness. I was not conscious enough to tell if I had imagined it or not, so I chose to ignore it.

"Watson!" the voice repeated, a little more urgently. Was that Holmes? No, it was too early, even for him. I must be imagining things.

" _Watson!_ " Unable to ignore the urgency in my friend's voice, I snapped awake and saw my friend Sherlock Holmes standing over me, candle in hand.

"What time is it? What's happening?" I asked, struggling into a sitting position, all too aware of how warm it was under the blankets and how cold it was outside of them.

"It is half past three, and I require your assistance with a case," Holmes replied.

"At three in the bloody morning?" I groaned.

"Half past three, actually," he corrected.

I sighed. "Is anyone in immediate danger?"

"Not at present," Holmes replied.

"Then it can wait," I replied firmly, closing my eyes and snuggling back under the warm blankets.

There was a short pause, and then—

"Watson…" Holmes's voice had assumed a more pleading tone.

"Holmes," I growled.

"It's in the country, old boy—we can escape the London fogs."

I made no reply.

"We could go for a sleigh ride."

I still said nothing.

Holmes sighed. "In a couple hours, I'll come back."


	13. Bedtime Stories

**A/N: Changing things up a bit this time, and putting the prompt at the end. You'll understand why when we get there. ;)**

* * *

 ** _Watson_**

"Tell me about one of your cases," said my dear wife Mary, late one winter's evening.

"Of course," I acquiesced with a smile. After all, I usually enjoyed telling them as much as she did listening, and so I spent the next minute or two in a thoughtful silence.

"Now I remember a good one," said I. "Never before had the solution to a case rested upon such a strange and innocuous detail than it did in the case of one particular kidnapping."

"John," said my wife, with little grin, "I believe you're telling your story backwards again."

"Allow me to begin at the beginning, then," I returned, returning her smile. "A distraught young man—I can't remember his name at present, I'm afraid—but he came to Holmes, telling him that he had received an unsigned, unaddressed letter demanding a large sum of money for the return of his four-year-old son.

" 'I believe this is a matter for the police,' Holmes told the man, in a gentle but firm tone.

" 'I have gone to the police,' said the young man. 'I spoke with Inspector Lestrade this morning, but I will not feel easy in my mind unless you are on the case.'

" 'I shall at least take a look at the letter,' Holmes acquiesced, 'and then I shall decide whether it would be best to leave the matter in Lestrade' hands, or take it upon myself.'

"The young man shifted uncomfortably. 'Inspector Lestrade is keeping it as evidence.'

" 'Then I suppose we shall have to call on Lestrade,' said Holmes, obviously a little irked by this development.

"The three of us drove to Scotland Yard. Holmes asked the young man a number of questions on the way, I believe about his family and servants. Our client lived with his wife and son, and several servants, most of them trustworthy. His brother lived a short distance away. All other relatives were much farther.

"We soon arrived at Scotland Yard, and met with our friend Lestrade. He was a little reluctant to give us access to the letter, but seeing the young man's distress, soon handed the letter to Holmes.

"My friend quickly skimmed the letter, and set it aside. He then picked up the envelope, examined it closely, and turned to your client, saying, 'I expect we shall be able to identify the kidnapper and find your son by this evening. Good day, gentlemen!'

"Both Lestrade and the young man and looked a little startled, and I must say that I was as well. Neither of us could see what was so singular about the envelope.

"I ventured to ask Holmes about it during our cab ride back to Baker Street, but he only gave a little chuckle. 'Just a little theory, Watson, that is all.' "

I paused in my narrative, seeing that Mary was beginning to show signs of drowsiness.

"Would you like to go to bed, dear?" I asked.

She shook her head, with a sleepy smile. "I must know how it ends first."

Then I would have to keep the rest as short as I could.

"Well, Holmes quickly amassed a short list of all suspects, and we drove to each of their living quarters in turn. At each location, he would ask to see where they would write letters, and make a close examination of the place, opening drawers, and staring very closely at the surface of the tables, his aquiline nose barely an inch away from the surface."

"You shouldn't be so mean about his nose," Mary chided me.

I shook my head. "Perhaps not, but it does look rather birdlike when he does that sort of thing. May I continue?"

Mary gave a quiet giggle. "Of course, John."

"Anyway, Holmes looked very closely at the place where his suspects would most likely write a letter, but nowhere else. At our fifth stop, which was the home of our client's brother. Holmes once again drew close to the writing desk, and began to examine it. Then I saw him stiffen, glance into a couple of drawers, and then rise again to his full height.

" 'I have found our kidnapper, Watson," said he in a low voice, an excited glint in his eye. 'We must inform the good Inspector, and have him arrested.'

" 'And the child?' I asked.

" 'Is surely secreted somewhere in the house,' he replied.

"Holmes was correct in every particular. The brother had kidnapped his nephew for a ransom, as his gambling habits had driven him to the point of near bankruptcy. The child was found and returned to his father, and the kidnapper was brought to justice."

"But how did Holmes do it?" asked Mary, eyes wide with interest.

I grinned widely. "Don't you have some theory?"

Mary's brow furrowed in thought. "Well, something about the envelope was connected to the place where they wrote it. He must have seen something in common between them. Was it the kind of envelope used?"

"No," I replied.

Mary thought another long moment. "Could you provide me with a hint?"

"Well, it wasn't something he saw at all."

Mary threw her hands in the air in mock despair, though her quiet smile told me she was only teasing. "Just tell me, John, I am never going to guess it."

"Holmes noticed the smell of peppermint. The man had just eaten a humbug when he licked the envelope to seal it, and Holmes smelt the candy at the man's desk, and found a small assortment of humbugs stored in a drawer."

Mary gave a laugh. "What a strange thing for a whole case to hinge upon!"

"I must agree," I replied. "Anyway, it's made me take more notice of the peppermint smell of humbugs since then!"

* * *

 **December 13: "Peppermint." (from Wordweilder)**

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for bearing with me on holding back the prompt. After all, I couldn't spoil the whole story before it began!**

 **Also, I realized after I'd written most of this story that licking envelopes might be anachronistic, but I can't seem to find any information online about how long that icky-tasting glue stuff has been around, so I don't really know. I hope you enjoyed the story regardless. :)**


	14. More Father Christmas

**December 14: "A claus(e)." (from W. Y. Traveller)**

* * *

 **A/N: Brief sequel to Day 4's story "Evil Twin", in which Holmes and Watson join Lestrade investigating the mysterious burglaries by someone dressed as Father Christmas.**

 **Not sure if it** ** _entirely_** **fills the prompt, but it was an excellent excuse to use this little idea I had…**

* * *

 ** _Holmes_**

Two things served to increase my ever mounting frustration First, it had been four days since I had first heard of the Father Christmas burglaries, and yet I was no nearer to a solution. Second, I was no nearer to convincing Watson to my point of view about children's belief in Father Christmas.

These combined to put me into an extremely ill temper, so much so that when a small band of my Baker Street Irregulars arrived unannounced, I was much sharper than I ought to have been.

"Yes? What are you here for?" I asked testily.

"Well," Wiggins began, in his most businesslike tone. "You see, Mr. 'Olmes, me an' the boys 'ere are 'aving a bit of a disagreement about Father Christmas, an' we were 'oping you an' the Doctor moight clear it up for us."

Watson cut in before I could speak. "I am sure we would be glad to do so. Wouldn't we Holmes?" He shot me a sharp glare.

"Of course," I said, halfheartedly feigning interest.

"Thanks!" said Wiggins. "This is how it is. Tom 'ere is convinced Father Christmas is absolutely real, and 'e brings presents to everyone. Roger thinks there's no such thing. An' Billy 'ere thinks it's Father Christmas 'oo's been robbin' houses. Who's roight?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but Watson cut me short again. "Well, boys, I think Holmes and I might have to discuss this one a little while. It might be a bit more complicated than we think. Could you wait in the hall for a minute?"

They all nodded eagerly, and moved out into the hall with many whispers between them.

Watson turned to me as soon as the door was closed behind them. In a low voice, he said, "I know what you want to tell them, Holmes, but we must be diplomatic and rational about this."

"We will let them down kindly, then?" I replied quietly.

The corners of my friend's mouth turned down. "Not exactly what I had in mind. Now—" he stopped me from speaking once more "—please give me a moment to state my case in favor of the children's belief in Father Christmas, if you would be so kind. After all, you have already given your whole argument several times now."

I shrugged. "I am all ears."

"First, the myth of Father Christmas is grounded in truth. It's not all magical sleighs and flying reindeer."

That much was true, at least.

"And as for all of those magical things," Watson continued, "it's important that children use their imaginations, so as to not lose them when they are older. You, of all people, know the importance of an imagination."

"Yes," I said grudgingly. That much _did_ make some sense.

"And I will admit, belief in Father Christmas can be taken too far, and once children reach a certain age, the truth must be broken to them."

I definitely agreed with that.

"But while the children are young, it gives parents a chance to give to their children anonymously. This way, the children don't come to expect bigger gifts from their parents or anyone else, and instead believe it comes from Father Christmas."

That did make a certain amount of sense, I supposed, though I was really not sure it justified such a deception.

"Lastly, and I think most importantly, it gives the children a chance to believe in something larger than themselves, and something inherently good. And that is something to be said for these children especially. Our Irregulars have precious little to call their own, and few people who care for them. If a belief in Father Christmas is what it takes for them to see a little more good in this world, then I firmly believe that a little so-called deception for a time it is worth it."

I had not considered of it from quite that angle before. I thought of the situations some of my little street urchins dealt with every day, and to my surprise, found my convictions beginning to waver.

From the quiet smile on Watson's face, I knew he could tell he was beginning to convince me.

"Watson, you should have been a lawyer," I said at long last. "You have given Father Christmas the most admirable defense any will likely ever hear again."

Watson gave a quiet chuckle. "Well, I did spend the entire week composing that little argument. Now, what do we tell the children?"

I thought for a long moment. "They are still very young, apart from Wiggins, who I suspect knows the truth already, but like you, is kind enough to withhold it. I suppose you tell them Father Christmas…" I had a difficult time forcing the words out "…is _real._ But I would like you to say it—I still am not entirely convinced, nor am I confortable deceiving our Irregulars. But if you think it is best..."

"Of course I will tell them," said Watson.

We brought our little friends back into the sitting room, and Watson told them all that Father Christmas was indeed real.

"Would you be willin' to sign a document to that effect?" asked little James.

"Of course," Watson replied.

James gave a nod. "Tha' settles it, then."

He then went on to explain that a very bad man was pretending to be him to steal from other people.

I confess I was a little surprised when I saw the amount of indignation on those little faces when Watson told them this.

"Tha's bloody awful," remarked Billy solemnly.

"If you ever need 'elp tracking that 'orrid man down, you jus' call on us, all roight?" said Wiggins to me.

I was about to reply that I certainly would, when Inspector Lestrade came rushing into the room.

"New developments?" I asked eagerly.

"Of a fashion," Lestrade replied breathlessly. "A break-in has just been committed by someone dressed as a snowman!"

* * *

 **A/N: The plot thickens!**

 **I hope Watson's argument didn't come off as a soapbox rant. It turned out the way it did because Holmes took a lot of convincing before he would come round to Watson's point of view. And of course, he needed to change his mind, or he would make some sweet little Irregulars really sad. Which is not allowed—not on Watson's watch!**


	15. Newspaper

**December 15: "Norbury" (from Madam'zelleGiry)**

* * *

 _"Watson,' said [Holmes], 'if it should ever strike you that I am getting a little over-confident in my powers, or giving less pains to a case than it deserves, kindly whisper 'Norbury' in my ear, and I shall be infinitely obliged to you." – The Yellow Face_

* * *

 ** _Watson_**

Holmes gave yet another quiet sigh of frustration from his chair. I set down my fork and my newspaper, too frustrated by his distracting signs of boredom to continue my breakfast and reading without saying something.

"Are there truly no cases at present?" I asked.

"None," Holmes grunted.

"Nothing in the papers?" I tried.

"Solved everything that can be solved," he replied.

"Even the Topham murder case?" I asked.

"It was clearly the footman," he said.

I frowned, and flipped the newspaper back a page, skimming through the paragraph, until I found what I was searching for. According to the article, said footman had been locked in the cellar during the entire incident. How could Holmes have missed such an obvious point?

A moment later, I realized my mistake. Holmes must have read the early edition of the news, and I had the later edition. I fought back a smirk. This would make for an entertaining couple of minutes.

"And you are quite certain it was the footman?" I asked.

"Of course," Holmes replied coldly. "All the evidence points to it."

"Hm," I said. "I ought to make you sign a paper to that effect," I said, echoing something Holmes had once said before reveling his reasoning behind a startling deduction.

"What?" Holmes said, his curiosity now suitably piqued.

"Norbury, Holmes," I said, unable to suppress a little self-satisfied grin.

"Whatever are you prattling about, Watson?" he demanded.

I tossed him the newspaper. "Try reading the later edition of the article. You may find it enlightening."

Holmes made a scoffing noise, and buried himself in the newspaper.

* * *

 **A/N: The time Watson finds himself quoting is at the start of "The Adventure of the Dancing Men", where Holmes deduces that Watson won't invest in South African securities.**


	16. Unexpected Guest

**December 16: "Mary Watson's and the Scotland Yard Wives Club" (from Madam'zelleGiry)**

* * *

 **A/N: I came up with all of the wives names myself, since as far as I can remember, none of them are named in the canon. (So if I've got that wrong, I'm sorry guys! And let me know if that's the case. Thanks.)**

* * *

It was Mrs. Helen Lestrade who had initially thought of the idea—and Mary Watson could not agree more—that they form a little club for the wives of the Scotland Yard detectives, and women in similar plights. After all, Helen and Mary had become close friends after hours spent worrying and complaining about their husbands' dangerous work together, and they could not help but think that there must be others who should benefit from similar experiences.

Now, after three months of meeting every other week in various members' homes, they had amassed seven total members. It was a small club, but a club nonetheless.

This meeting was being held at Alice Gregson's house, and Mary and Helen decided to ride together to the Gregson's that evening. It was a relatively short ride, but long enough to for Mary to perceive Helen's clasping and unclasping hands, and other signs of anxiety.

"Is something troubling you, dear?" Mary asked gently.

Helen bit her lip nervously. "To tell you the truth, I'm a little concerned about meeting with Alice Gregson, and after all of the things my husband has said about hers, I'm just not sure I will have it in me to be very kind to her."

"Nonsense," said Mary, laying a kind hand on her friend's shoulder. "I know you; you are much too kind to treat anyone ill, regardless of what your husband says. Besides, I've met Alice. She's a very sweet woman, and I'm sure the two of you will get along very nicely."

"If you say so," Helen replied dubiously.

When the pair arrived, Elsie Bradstreet and Dorothy Jones were already there, as well as Alice Gregson, of course, and within the next few minutes, Ada Baynes and Ellen Hopkins both arrived.

Their "meetings", as they called them, were very informal, and mostly consisted of sharing stories, worries, and fears for a couple of hours, and then returning home feeling refreshed after sharing with other women who truly understood their plight.

"…And of course, I was up half the night worrying myself to death," Alice Gregson was saying to the others, "Toby showed up at some God-forsaken hour of the night, and had the nerve to ask me why I hadn't gone to bed!"

"Geoffrey's done the same to me!" Helen exclaimed.

"They're all like that," said Ada Baynes sagely.

After about half an hour, Alice's maid came to announce that they seemed to have a late arrival.

"Helen, did you know of anyone else coming?" asked Mary.

Helen shook her head. "Did you, Alice?"

"No," Alice replied. "Well, she is welcome, whoever she is. Bring her in."

A minute later, a very flustered middle-aged woman entered.

Mary Watson gasped. "Why, Mrs. Hudson! I didn't know you were coming!"

"Good evening, ladies," she said, flustered. "I am sorry if I am intruding….I—I was told I ought to come to this address."

"By whom?" asked Mary, gently ushering to a seat.

"Your husband," said she, shaking her head. "I'm not entirely sure what happened…"

"Take your time," said Helen gently.

"Well," said Mrs. Hudson, "I was doing a little dusting in the front hall, when the door flew open and Mr. Holmes stumbled in, white as a ghost, blood soaking through him all over. I thought I would faint, but recovered a moment later. By then, the Doctor—your husband, I mean—was helping Mr. Holmes up the stairs to tend to him. I followed them up, but I was so flustered I didn't know what to do with myself! I've seen blood before, ladies, but heavens above, I have never seen Mr. Holmes or anyone else in such a horrible condition!"

"Will he be all right?" asked Alice, echoing the thoughts of all the others.

"Dr. Watson said he could fix him up all right, and that I ought not worry myself, but I could not help but worry!" Mrs. Hudson threw her hands in the air in a gesture of defeat, then shook her head. "I can't remember exactly what I said, but then the Doctor wrote down this address, and told me I ought to wait here for a while."

"His instincts were sound," said Elsie Bradstreet with a kind smile. "All of us have been in situations similar to yours before, and will be again."

"This is the Scotland Yard Wives Club," Helen explained, in answer to Mrs. Hudson's confused expression. "We meet to discuss fears, griefs, and to share stories with one another.

"Though we are not all _exactly_ wives of Yarders," said Mary with a smile. "And I am sure that if you ever wish to join us again, you would be very welcome to."

There were Of course's and Oh, yes's and Please do's all around the room.

Mrs. Hudson breathed a quiet sigh of relief. "That is good to hear. I daresay I have plenty of fears, griefs, _and_ stories to share, if you would care to hear them."

Mary smiled. "That's exactly why we are all here," said she.


	17. Deerstalker

**December 17: "That confounded deerstalker" (from Domina Temporis)**

* * *

 ** _Holmes_**

"Sir!" called a clear tenor voice from behind us. Watson and I turned round. A young man jogged towards us from the train seat we had just abandoned, my deerstalker cap in hand. "I believe you dropped this." He handed it to me.

"Yes, I must have," I said, making only a slight effort to disguise my exasperation, but taking the article from him nonetheless. Ignoring Watson's suspicious glance, we disembarked the train.

A couple hours later found us in the office of Inspector Lestrade, discussing a current case, when young Inspector Hopkins stepped cautiously into the room.

"Um, Mr. Holmes," said he, "I believe you must have dropped this in my trash bin." He handed me the confounded hat. "Ah, thank you, Hopkins," I said with a very forced smile. Ignoring both Lestrade and Watson's suspicious expressions, I plunged back into our previous inquiries.

That evening, Watson and I were once again home in Baker Street.

"Mr. Holmes!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, marching into the room, my deerstalker in hand. "What the deuce is your headwear doing in my fireplace?"

"I haven't the faintest notion," I growled, snatching the blasted hat out of her hand and throwing it across the room. My landlady shot me a reproachful glance and swept from the room.

Watson raised an eyebrow. "I get the distinct impression you don't much care for that particular hat," said he.

"Congratulations," I said icily. "Soon your detective skills shall surpass even my own."

Watson gave an irritated sigh, and opened his mouth—no doubt to justify why I ought to be wearing the wretched hat—but before he could say a word, we were interrupted by the arrival of a very breathless Inspector Lestrade.

"New developments," Lestrade gasped. "I've got a cab waiting. Grab your hats, gentlemen, and we must be off!" He retreated as quickly as he had come.

Watson and I exchanged excited glances, and leaped to our feet. I reached for my black top hat, but was stopped by my insufferable biographer.

"This one," said Watson, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

I stared in exasperation at the proffered deerstalker hat. "Why?"

"You're Sherlock Holmes," said he, "wear the damn hat!"

* * *

 **A/N: Not sure that last was** ** _entirely_** **in character, but I just couldn't resist the urge to reference that trailer for the BBC** ** _Sherlock_** **Christmas Special! I'm way too excited for it! :D**


	18. Waiting

**December 18: "Mycroft believes in Father Christmas and Sherlock does not." (from Aleine Skyfire)**

* * *

 **A/N: Made this one a 221b on the first draft. :D**

* * *

"What are you doing?" whispered little Sherlock. He'd snuck into the sitting room to retrieve one of his books, and was startled to see his older brother Mycroft, now nearly twelve, staring intently out of a window.

Mycroft gave a little start, then shushed his brother. "Shh! I'm waiting for Father Christmas to come!"

Sherlock gave a careless shrug, and whispered, "All right."

Mycroft looked confused. "Well, aren't you waiting for him too?"

Sherlock thought a moment, then shook his head. "Not really." He glanced around for a moment, then seeing his book in a chair across the room, retrieved it and made to leave.

"Well, I'll tell him not to leave you anything, when he does come," said Mycroft.

Sherlock shrugged again. "All right, Mycroft. But you know you won't see him."

"What do you mean?" Mycroft demanded.

"You just won't see him," said Sherlock.

"And why's that?" Mycroft eyed his brother disdainfully.

Sherlock sighed. Mycroft was far too convinced of Father Christmas's existence to warrant another argument, especially at an hour when they were both supposed to be in bed. "Because you'll fall asleep far before he comes," Sherlock reasoned.

"I will not!" said Mycroft, aghast.

"Yes you will," said Sherlock with a little grin. He tucked the book he'd retrieved under his arm, and scampered off to bed.


	19. Substitute

**December 19: "Watson is really, truly unavailable for a case with Holmes…so Mary takes his place instead." (from Aleine Skyfire)**

* * *

 ** _Holmes_**

The strange events I am about to recount occurred one evening several months after the marriage of my friend Watson and Mary Morstan. I called at their new home, but learned from their maid that my friend was busy with his practice, and would probably not return home until late.

I had just made to leave, when Mrs. Watson hurried into the passage and stopped me.

"You are welcome to wait for John, if you wish," she offered with a sweet smile.

I shook my head. "I have a rather pressing case on my hands, so I'm afraid I must decline."

"You came for John's help then?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied. Well of course I did! I was hardly in the habit of making social calls.

"Do you have anyone else who can assist you?" she asked.

"Not really," I admitted.

"Will it be dangerous?" she asked.

"Unless something goes very, very unexpectedly wrong, no," I said, "But if you will excuse me…" I retreated a couple of steps, but Mrs. Watson followed.

"Would I be able to assist you?" she asked.

"I am afraid not," I replied.

She pursed her lips. "You spoke far too quickly to have actually considered it, even taking into account the speed of your thought processes."

Mrs. Watson was correct, and I had little doubt she could see that in my face as well. "My apologies," said I.

"I want to help," she said. "I hate to see you go without needed assistance, and between you and me," she added confidentially, "it's a little dull being an English housewife, when John is working all the time."

To my own surprise, I found myself reconsidering her offer. "Well…perhaps…"

"You yourself said that there was no danger," Mrs. Watson insisted.

That was true. In addition to that, I had known since I first met her that she was both intelligent and insightful, and could see in her expression now that nothing would deter her from accompanying me on this case unless I had some very good reason that she not come. Which I did not.

"I'll call a carriage," I said, "and it will be departing in three minutes whether your are in it or not."

"Thank you!" she replied, flashing me a grin, and rushed away to retrieve her bonnet or whatever else women have to do before going out.

She climbed into the carriage two minutes and seventeen seconds later, and then we were on our way. I was already beginning to rather regret my decision. What would Watson say when he learned of this?

"Where are we headed, and what do I need to do?" Mrs. Watson asked, breaking in on my thoughts.

"We are on our way to the British Museum, where you will engage the security guard in a brief conversation about one of the Italian paintings while I…complete my case."

"How?" she asked.

"It is somewhat confidential," I said.

"Only somewhat?"

Well, if she would not be put off, I might as well tell her. "I am anonymously returning a small artifact that was stolen several days ago."

"Ah," she replied. "Someone important took it?"

"I am not at liberty to answer that," I replied.

She gave a little sigh. "I suppose I'm better off not knowing anyway."

To keep a long story short, we could not have met with more complete success, rendering a full telling of the story far too dull for me to bother recounting. The return to the Watson's home was somewhat of a different matter.

Upon opening the door, the two of us found ourselves nearly walking straight into Watson, who showed signs of having arrived home from his practice within the past five minutes, and of hurriedly preparing to leave again.

"Mary!" he exclaimed. "Where on earth have you been?"

"British Museum," she replied.

"With Holmes?" he asked. "Actually, let's all just sit down a minute and let me figure out what's happened."

Watson led us to the sitting room. I cast a nervous glance at Mrs. Watson, who gave a confident little shake of the head, and mouthed what I believe was, _Don't worry_.

"Tell me, what _were_ you doing at the Museum?" he asked, glancing back and forth between his wife and me, apparently unsure which of us to address.

"Completing a case," I replied a trifle nervously.

"With Mary?" His eyebrows shot up.

"Yes," she replied. "Don't worry—there was no danger or anything of that nature; he only needed a momentary distraction."

"She did quite well," I added, unsure whether or not saying so would help the situation.

"Ah," said Watson, with a slight frown, apparently unsure what to think of all this. A moment later, his expression cleared, and he gave a little laugh.

"Well, apparently this is a lesson to me not to work so much," he said, "or I might be in danger of being replaced!"

"Of course not!" I cried, for despite his joking manner I perceived a slight undertone of genuine concern. "My dear Watson, you are not easily replaced, even by someone as worthy as your wife."

Watson's cheeks coloured a little, and I knew my words had the desired effect.

"Mary is certainly that," said he.

"But not nearly as qualified for the job as you, John," said she, with a smile. "Mr. Holmes is right. You had better keep it."

Watson's pink cheeks darkened a shade. "I fully intend to."


	20. Something Fishy

**December 20: "Lestrade doesn't even want to know." (from Madam'zelleGiry)**

* * *

 **A/N: Part 2 of 3 of the tale that began in Day 3's story in which Holmes arrives—dripping wet—around ten at night on Watson's doorstep, leaves Toby with him, and doesn't return until half past four, smelling strongly of fish.**

 **I probably spent way too much time (and stayed up way too late) researching Victorian London's docks, but hey, I learned a lot. I just hope it was enough to keep this accurate. If I've made any outrageous errors, please let me know!**

* * *

 ** _Lestrade_**

After all the years of working alongside Sherlock Holmes, nothing should really surprise me anymore. Unfortunately, the man seems to have in infinite variety of ways of doing so.

For this reason, I was only slightly shocked to answer the door late one winter's evening, and come face to face with a dripping wet consulting detective and a panting lop-eared dog.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," I said.

"Evening, Lestrade," he replied. "If you were about to ask me why I am soaking wet—"

"Actually," I interjected, "I've learned to expect that sort of thing from you, and I think our time would be better spent by my asking you what brings you here."

Mr. Holmes gave a twitch of a smile. "Remember Lady Beaulieu's missing diamonds? Well, someone is about to smuggle them out of the country."

"Tonight?" I asked.

"Yes," replied Mr. Holmes, "or rather, extremely early tomorrow morning. Can I trust you to meet me at the Brunswick Wharf at a quarter past twelve?"

"I'll certainly be there," I replied. "Will Dr. Watson be accompanying us?"

The amateur gave a small shake of the head. "I am afraid not. I have already taken Watson along on two nocturnal cases this month, and I would rather not find the limits of his wife's patience for such things."

"Ah, I understand," I replied.

"I will see you at twelve-fifteen," said Mr. Holmes.

I opted not to tell my wife about the puddle of water he left on the doorstep, as she was already none too pleased that work was taking me from her so close to Christmas. But she knew how important it was that justice be done, and two hours later found me preparing to leave.

"I am sure it won't take too long, dear," I assured her. "Try and get a little sleep, and I'll be home before you've missed me."

Helen's lips compressed into a thin line. "Please be careful, and watch out for Mr. Holmes as well."

"Of course," I replied. And I certainly would.

It was dreadfully cold outside, though no snow yet lay upon the ground. I was glad I'd bundled myself up in my thickest ulster, gloves, and muffler, but the chill still penetrated through the layers. I was shivering a little by the time my cab reached the Brunswick wharf.

Sherlock Holmes was waiting for me, also bundled in warmer attire than he had been previously wearing. Probably a good thing too, or the man would catch his death of cold!

"Good evening, again, Mr. Holmes," I said.

"Yes, I thought should find warmer and dryer clothes before going out again," said he, answering my thoughts rather than my words. I decided not to bother asking how he'd known what was on my mind.

"A wise decision," said I. "Dr. Watson wouldn't be too pleased if you fell ill out of sheer thoughtlessness."

"No indeed," Mr. Holmes replied, giving a slight shiver.

"Why the lantern?" I asked, gesturing to the small dark lantern in Holmes's grasp.

"It will be important later," he replied. And as such, the explanation would come later as well, I supposed.

"Now," I said, in a low voice, "where is our diamond thief, and where are the diamonds?"

"A worthy question," he replied. "Follow me."

I gritted my teeth to avoid making a reply I might later regret, and walked with him for two or three blocks, only really conscious of the numbness of my fingers and toes, and a moment later realized we were entering a slightly shabby public house.

A breathed a sigh of relief at the warmth as Holmes led the way to a table in the back corner.

"We can speak just a tad more freely here, I think," said Mr. Holmes in a low voice, setting his dark lantern on the ground next to our table. "I trust it is unlikely you will be recognized in this district?"

"I rarely find myself in this part of London," I replied as we seated ourselves.

"Good," said Holmes. "Now—here are the facts it is necessary I impart. I have made contact with the man who is currently safeguarding the diamonds. He believes that I and a companion have been asked by his superior to accompany him to the ship—"

"Superior?" I asked. "This is an organized group of criminals, then?"

"Very organized, and very careful," Mr. Holmes replied. "And it appears to be quite extensive. But only two of their members are our concern, at the moment. Caulfield, who currently has the diamonds, is scheduled to meet me—"

"But how did you fool him into believing you are one of them?" I interjected.

Mr. Holmes gave an impatient wave of his hand. "It's a long story, and is of no consequence at present. Pray, may I continue _without_ interruption?"

I gave a sheepish nod.

"Now, Caulfield will arrive in approximately ten minutes, and we are to go with him to meet Ogden, who will secrete the diamonds somewhere on board the ship. Now, if I knew for sure which vessel was to be used and where it would be hidden, then perhaps we could have simply found it later, but I was unable to discover either of those things, and their boat could leave as early as five this morning. That is the reason for our midnight excursion."

"Could we overpower this Caulfield and take the diamonds from him?" I asked.

Mr. Holmes shook his head. "I think we shall have to be a bit more cunning. This criminal organization has arranged for sentries to be posted around Caulfield in case something like that should occur. We would quickly become outnumbered."

"Well, I could have asked a couple of trusty—"

"If you had brought along constables, it would only make us look suspicious!" he said testily. "And besides, I told Caulfield there would be me and one other. I was unsure at the time whether it would be you or Watson."

"All right," I said. "What is your plan, then?"

Mr. Holmes shot several quick glances about him, and leaned forward, voice even lower than before. "We do exactly as Caulfield believes we are to do. We accompany him to the boat as his escorts and deliver the diamonds to Ogden, and go our separate ways. Then we shall know which boat it is on. I have instructed my stealthiest street urchin—there he is by that table, and I wager you never would have noticed him had I not pointed him out—he is to follow Ogden, and see where he hides the diamonds."

"And if he is noticed?"

"He will tell Ogden he was looking for a job on a boat, but was too shy to speak up. He probably will not believe that story, but I very much doubt he would harm the child. We will stay within shouting distance, and would be on the scene quickly if he did."

"So what you are telling me," I said slowly, with another glance at the child across the room, "is that the fate of Lady Beaulieu's diamonds are in the hands of a shabby six-year-old."

"He's nearly eight," said the amateur. "And I daresay he will do a better job of this than you or I could."

I heaved a sigh. The situation as really not to my liking, but there was not much I could do about it.

"We are out of time for discussion," whispered Mr. Holmes. "There is our man Caulfield." He nodded towards a heavyset man plodding into the pub. Caulfield glanced around for a moment, before catching sight of us.

"Now Lestrade," whispered Holmes, "remember that you are Mr. Andrew Thornburn, an old school friend of mine, who works for a pawnbroker in Dorchester, and is visiting family in London over Christmas."

"Right," said I, wishing I'd had a little more time to digest that information, and hoping I wouldn't need to use any of it.

"Evenin', gentlemen," growled Caulfield, and took a seat next to me. "I'm Caulfield," he said, offering me a dirty hand.

I shook it. "Thornburn."

He gave a grunt that seemed to be some variant of "Nice to meet you". He glanced at the bare table. "No drinks?"

Mr. Holmes flashed a smile. "We try not to partake while working. Now—you have the goods?"

Caulfield gently tapped a pocket. "I certainly do."

Mr. Holmes stood. "Then it is high time we go. Ogden has never liked waiting."

Caulfield gave a derisive snort. "You've got tha' right."

Holmes snatched up his lantern, and we followed Caulfield to the door of the pub. I had a difficult time taking my eyes off the man's coat. Inside one of those pockets was a collection of some of the most expensive treasures ever to come to our shores, and I would be as helpless to reach it if it were a thousand miles away. It was maddening!

As we reentered the chilly night, I glanced at Mr. Holmes, to see if he was feeling the same frustration, but his expression was calm and serious. Of course—he was a skilled actor as well as a detective. I tried to school my face into a similar expression, but was sure I was not nearly so convincing. I was glad for the cover of darkness, and the thick muffler concealing the lower part of my face.

It was already proving to be a long evening.

* * *

 **A/N: This story will be concluded in tomorrow's post!**


	21. Fish Case Closed

**December 21: "How do criminals celebrate Christmas? (from Riandra)**

* * *

 **A/N: Part 3 of 3 in the Fish Case! (Sequel to Day 3 and Day 20.)**

* * *

 ** _Holmes_**

As Inspector Lestrade and I followed the smuggler Caulfield through the brisk London streets, I felt my pulse quicken. Finally, after hours and days of searching and acting and observing, my plans were falling together, and soon the diamonds would be recovered!

The thrill soon began to wear off, however, and I began to very keenly feel the wind sneaking past all my protective layers. I stuffed my gloved hands deeper into my pockets, wishing Caulfield would quicken his pace.

He did not, but we soon reached our destination nonetheless. It was a large, steel-hulled ship we were led to, though it was difficult to tell much more, even with the light of the occasional streetlamp.

As we approached, a man stepped out of the shadows surrounding the ship. He had the distinctive gait of a blacksmith and the build to match.

"I trust all went well?" said the man Ogden to us.

"Yes, sir," replied Caulfield.

"You have the goods?" asked Ogden.

"Yes," replied Caulfield, tapping his pocket once more.

"Good," said Ogden with a satisfied smirk. "Now, who are these gentlemen who accompany you?"

Caulfield glanced at me in confusion.

"We were asked to accompany Caulfield here, to ensure no harm befell him," said I. "Orders from the top."

"Ah," said Ogden. "But why was I not informed?"

I shrugged. "I've decided not to make it my business what some of us know and others don't."

Ogden's lips twisted into a snarl, but he made no reply.

"Well, friend Thornburn," I said, turning to Lestrade, "I believe our work here is done. Good evenin' to you."

"Yes—yes, good evening," echoed Lestrade. I wished he would have remained silent. He sounded far too nervous to convincingly play the part of a hired ruffian. But thankfully, it did not appear that Ogden had taken any notice. (Which was well. There were two murders I was certain he caused, but the proof was not enough for a jury. I did not want cause for a third or fourth tonight.)

Inspector Lestrade and I walked some good distance down the road. I stopped him when we reached a distance from whence we could still see what was happening at the dock. We crouched next to the front steps of the building so that they partially concealed us from them.

I scanned the scene before us, and after about a minute's search, spotted my trusty Irregular Walter, crouched in a doorway some little ways down the street.

Our new acquaintances Caulfield and Ogden spoke for some short time, then Caulfield reached into his coat and handed a small package to his superior, and departed—thankfully in the opposite direction from which we were hidden.

Ogden turned on his heel and walked out of our range of viewing, in all probability boarding the ship to hide his precious cargo. Walter flitted between shadows, and was soon out of sight as well.

We sat shivering in that doorway for some time. I could hear the poor Inspector's teeth chattering loudly next to me, but did not have it in me to chide him for his noisiness. After all, it was unlikely anyone would hear it, and it was I who dragged him out into this cold winter's evening.

Thankfully, our wait lasted less than half an hour; though how much less, I could not tell. Ogden emerged from the ship, and went on his way. Unfortunately, "his way" led him uncomfortably close to us. And although I was certain he did not see us crouched in the shadows, we remained motionless for a few long minutes after he had passed by.

"Come, Inspector," I whispered, rising stiffly to my full height and striking off in the direction of our cargo ship, Lestrade at my heels.

Walter stepped out of the shadows as we reached the ship. "I can show you the room where he put it," the boy whispered. "Follow me. " He led us up into the ship, around a few corners, and down into a cargo hold.

I lifted the cover of my dark lantern, to reveal a largish room full of preserving cans. By their appearance, I could see they were some sort of food being transported. By their smell, I could tell it was fish.

"Do you know where he put the diamonds?" I asked Walter.

He gave a little disappointed shake of the head. "Had to slip away or he'd've seen me!" he replied.

"That's all right," I said, thankful the boy had gotten this far.

"I'm pretty sure it's in a can, though," Walter continued. "I couldn't watch, but I stayed near enough to listen."

"Excellent!" I said, rubbing my hands together. "You have done marvelously," I told him, and handed him his payment. The boy grinned and thanked me as he stuffed the coin in his pocket and scampered away.

I turned to the Inspector. "Well, we have only to figure out which can it is in, and we shall have our Lady Beaulieu's diamonds!"

Lestrade let out an audible groan. It took me only a moment to realize the source of his exasperation.

"I apologize, Inspector," I said. "I must confess I had no idea we would find ourselves searching through a couple hundred cans of salmon," I said.

"Well, the sooner we begin, the sooner we'll finish," said Lestrade through gritted teeth.

And thus our search began.

It was a cold, miserable, smelly business, and all told, took nearly two hours to complete. I shall go into no further detail than that, or the readers of this may find themselves as averse to smelling or eating fish as Lestrade and I were after this incident. It was Lestrade who discovered the diamonds, in the bottom of one of the cans. It was well that I had brought a small bag for me to put them in, for while remarkable for their size, the jewels were still small enough to be easily lost if one was not careful.

"I suppose we shall have to issue several apologies now," Lestrade groaned. Apparently it was now dawning on him that the task we had just completed may not have entirely fallen upon the correct side of legal boundaries. The poor man had been too tired, cold, and focused on recovering the diamonds to consider much else. Not that he would have had any choice in the matter anyway.

"As usual, the fame and paperwork is all yours," I said to Lestrade as we left.

"You shall at least get some mention this time," said Lestrade. "I confess I would never have gotten nearly so far without you!"

"I appreciate the gesture," I replied, truly a tiny bit flattered by the Inspector's words.

It was now close enough to daybreak that a few cabs were out and about, and we were able to call one to bring Lestrade to his home, and me back to the home of my dear friend Watson. After all, I still had to retrieve Toby.

"But Holmes," said Watson, after I finished explaining these events to him, "you have never explained to me how you ended up dripping wet."

"Ah," said my friend. "You see, that is another story entirely, and one for which the world is not yet prepared."

Watson shook his head and sighed. But I was not about to tell him that I had simply lost balance and fallen into the Thames.

* * *

Meanwhile, in a luxurious sitting room somewhere on the other side of London, a couple of the strangest men were sitting and talking, a glass before each of them and a bottle of expensive wine between them.

Professor James Moriarty and Colonel Sebastian Moran saw no finer way to spend Christmas Eve, having no family that much liked them, and no friends but each other. As such, they were rather disgruntled by the interruption that came in the form of one John Ogden, a smuggler.

"Well, what have you come for?" asked Moriarty testily as the man entered the room.

The man swallowed hard, and fumbled with his necktie. "I—um—what are you doing?"

Moriarty and Moran exchanged a confused and irritated glance.

"We are celebrating Christmas," said Moran. "I believe the real question is what are _you_ doing?"

"I have news, sirs," said Ogden nervously, "and I am not sure you will still feel like celebrating Christmas once I have given it."

"Deliver it nonetheless," Moriarty replied coldly.

Ogden rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Lady Beaulieu's diamonds have been recovered, by one Inspector Lestrade."

Moran's grip on his glass slipped, but Moriarty caught it before it shattered upon the floor, and set it calmly on the table.

"Inspector _Lestrade_?" said Moran incredulously.

"He had help," Ogden continued, "by some amateur detective."

"The police don't consult amateurs!" Moran scoffed.

"This one they do," said Ogden. "He is called Sherlock Holmes."

"The detective from those stories in the Strand," muttered Moriarty.

Moran glanced at his companion in surprise. "You _read_ that rubbish?"

Moriarty shrugged. "I find such stories invigorating after hours of poring over dry mathematical treatises." He turned to Ogden, who was shifting his weight uncomfortably. "You may go."

Ogden looked as though he were about to ask something, but changed his mind.

"No goods delivered, no pay," said Moriarty. "You know the rules as well as I."

Ogden looked crestfallen. "But sir, my daughter—"

Moran rose to his full height, and Ogden took a timid step backward. But the Colonel gave a laugh, and pulled out his pocketbook. He crossed the room in three strides, handed Ogden a couple of small bills, and returned to his seat.

"Thank you!" said Ogden heartily. "Happy Christmas to the both of you!"

* * *

 **A/N: And thus concludes the Fish Case! Thanks to everyone who asked for this story to be told. I hope you liked it!**


	22. A Little Cake

**December 22: "Christmas baking at 221B." (from Aleine Skyfire)**

* * *

"Holmes," said Watson with an exasperated sigh, "we've gone through this already! We _are_ going to bake something nice for Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock Holmes shook his head. " _You_ might be, but I most certainly am not. Baking is hardly my area of expertise."

"How difficult can a little cake be?" said Watson, "And besides, she has done so much for us over the years that it is about time we returned the favor. What better time than the Christmas season to do so?"

Holmes was silent, eyes downcast and expression sullen.

"You know I won't leave you alone until you agree to this."

Holmes still said nothing, but his frown deepened.

"And if anything goes wrong, I will take the blame," added Watson.

Holmes was quiet for only a moment. "Well, in that case, I believe we have reached an agreement," said he.

"You will help, then?" asked Watson hopefully.

Sherlock Holmes threw up his hands. "Well, you have hardly given me a choice!"

As it turned out, "baking a little cake" was much more difficult than they had bargained.

"Dash it all, where is the sugar?" exclaimed Watson.

"The devil if I know!" Holmes replied irritably, violently brushing some stray flour from a pant leg. "I don't understand the way this place is organized."

"Well, I suppose if we were here long enough, we'd figure it out," Watson reasoned. "But have you found the sugar?"

Holmes had not. He looked through several more cupboards, and eventually found it. Finding every ingredient proved to be a quest by itself, and trying to combine then was even more difficult.

"Does that say to beat the eggs for three minutes, or five?" asked Watson, pointing to a spot in the recipe.

"I haven't a clue," Holmes snapped. "Understanding cyphers does not make reading messy handwriting any easier!"

When at long last, they completed their task, the cake was not quite what Watson had hoped. But Mrs. Hudson said it tasted fine, and thanked her dear lodgers all the same.


	23. Holmes Organizes

**December 23: "Baking." (from Wordweilder)**

* * *

 **A/N: Somewhat related to yesterday's tale, but it's not necessary to have read that one.**

 **I attempted some sort of poem this time around, which I don't do often, but I hope it worked!**

* * *

Mrs. Hudson, your kitchen is now well arranged,

Although it has taken me nearly an age.

Everything here is sorted by letter;

Now tell me, truly, is that not better?

* * *

B is for brown sugar, berries, and beats

A is for angel cake, and a few other sweets.

K is for kidney beans, kippers, and kiwi,

I is icing, ice cream and iced teas, see?

N is nutmeg, and noodles as well

G—you're not listening—you know I can tell!

* * *

Mr. Holmes, I am always a patient landlady,

But your organization will soon make me crazy!

Unless all my foods and supplies are returned,

You may find at breakfast, your toast has been burned…


	24. It's Snowing!

**December 24: "Hat shop." (from Garonne)**

* * *

 ** _Watson_**

"Mr. 'Olmes! Mr. 'Olmes!" exclaimed a dozen young voices, as two dozen feet clattered up the stairs.

Holmes and I turned round, to see a large group of our dirty little Irregulars stumbling into or sitting room, with pink cheeks and bright eyes.

"What is it, boys?" my friend asked.

"It's snowing!" cried Henry, pointing out the window.

"So it is," Holmes observed, with a glance in that direction.

I hadn't even noticed until the boys had said something. The little flakes drifted lazily down from the greyish skies above, and past our window, before melting on the streets below or landing on the shoulders and hats of passersby.

"Sorry I brought all of us in this toime," said Wiggins, "but it's too cold to leave them outside."

"Quite all right," I assured them.

"We have news to report besides the weather, Mr. 'Olmes," said Wiggins, straightening his posture and adding a couple of inches to his height. The boy was growing closer to my height every day, I noticed. He had already passed Mrs. Hudson!

Wiggins went on to give a detailed report regarding the latest case Holmes had them investigating.

Meanwhile, the other boys had migrated to the windows, each struggling to get the best view of the street below.

"It's sticking to the ground!" little James exclaimed, pointing. "Think we'll have enough to build a snowman?"

"Perhaps!" I said, my heart warming at the sight of their flushed, joyful faces. "But we'll need a good deal more snow for that to happen."

Wiggins nodded. "C'mon, boys. We've delivered our report, it's time to go."

"But it's cold out!" Henry whispered.

Without a word, Wiggins undid his tattered muffler and put it round Henry's neck.

I felt my heart twinge a little in my chest. I leaned towards Holmes, whispering a few short instructions. A moment later, he returned with my pocketbook in hand.

"If it's convenient to you boys," I said, taking my pocketbook, "I think we ought to take a short walk across town."

"Where to?" asked Wiggins.

"Well, I believe our first stop should be a hat shop," said I, "after all it's much too cold for you to be out bare-headed."

I pulled on my coat and my own hat, and ushered the now both excited and grateful boys to the door. I didn't even realize until we were outside that Holmes had also followed.

"I believe my last case has left me with sufficient funds to buy winter gear for them," he whispered.

"We'll split it, then," I whispered back, very grateful for his offer. After all, I was by no means wealthy.

It was thankfully not too long of a walk to the nearest hat shop, where all of the boys left with considerably warmer ears than when they entered.

After the hat shop, we also purchased gloves, mufflers, and shoes for all of those without such articles.

By the end of the afternoon, there were nearly two inches of snow covering the ground, and the snow was only coming down thicker and faster. And although our funds were somewhat depleted, of all the members of our dear little unofficial force were bundled up warm enough to build a snowman.

* * *

 **A/N: *Humming*** ** _After all, there's only one more sleep till Christmas!_**

 **It's finally snowing where I am! All we've had this winter are a few scattered flakes that melted within hours or days. And now it's looking like we'll actually have a white Christmas!**

 **Wishing you all snow (but not enough to hinder travel plans) to whiten Christmas where you are too! :D**


	25. Christmas with Lestrade

**December 25: "Lestrade invites a bereaved Watson to dinner with his family." (from KnightFury)**

* * *

 ** _Lestrade_**

Of all those I have met in my lifetime, Dr. Watson was one of the most optimistic. Even during the bleakest of cases, the man always seemed to be able to not only see the positive side of the situation, but to allow others to see it as well.

He was also one of the more sociable fellows I've known, able to strike up a conversation with nearly anyone who came into his path, and leave them in a better mood than before he met them.

But during the latter months of 1893, after the good Doctor had been deprived of both his best friend and his loving wife, this was not so. Watson was quiet, when I chanced to speak with him, which was not often, for he mostly kept himself to himself. Watson had apparently ceased to socialize, to write, and to laugh. Several months earlier, I had suggested that he apply for work as a police surgeon—partially because the work would be good for him, and partially because we at the Yard could keep a closer eye on him—but before he took the step, he lost his wife. Now it appeared that he might never work with us.

It was afternoon on the 24th of December, when members of my extended family were beginning to arrive for Christmas dinner that I thought of Watson again. He was probably alone in that house he never seemed to keep warm enough to keep a body alive.

I had a quiet word with my wife, then politely dismissed myself from the group. I was lucky enough to find a cab—feeling a little guilty the cabman wasn't home with his family yet, but resolved to pay him extra—and rode to Watson's home.

He answered the door himself when I knocked, likely having sent his servant girl home to her family.

"Good afternoon, Lestrade," said Watson. His expression was haggard, his hair and mustache greyer than when I had last seen him.

"Good afternoon, Watson," I replied.

"You can come in if you like," he said, leading me inside, "though you ought to be home with your family."

"That is why I am here," I said softly.

Watson turned to look at me, brows furrowed in slight confusion. We stood silently for a moment in the passage.

"We all ought to be with family," I said. "Helen is preparing some excellent goose, and I have three sisters who love baking desserts more than any other women I know. Their husbands and children are there as well, so the company will good, as well as the food."

Watson said nothing. His eyes had assumed that distant, melancholy expression that he often wore these days. I suppressed a shiver—it was far too cold in his house.

"And we would all be glad of your company," I said.

"Lestrade," said Watson at length, "you are far too kind to me, but I am afraid I must decline your offer."

I tried not to let my surprise show on my features. But I would not let him off so easily. "Have you other plans?" I asked.

"Of a sort," he replied distantly.

"Do those plans involve spending Christmas here, alone?" I asked.

Indecisiveness flashed across Watson's face, and I knew my suspicion was correct.

"Please, Watson," I said, "I can't stand the thought of a friend spending Christmas alone." It was probably not very Christian of me to use that angle, but I knew it would work, if nothing else would. That much I had learned from the late Sherlock Holmes.

"I suppose…" said Watson.

"Thank you," I replied.

"…if only for your sake," he continued. "I cannot in good conscience do anything to offend, or—"

"I am not sure you could ever offend anyone," I said. "Come, Watson, and I believe we will be just in time for dinner."

Watson gave a small smile that nearly met his eyes, and turned his back to retrieve his hat and coat. I felt a surge of some emotion as I waited at the door. How terribly unfair it was that someone as good as Watson should suffer so, when so many less deserving suffered so much less! But there was no helping that. I could only try to help my friend as best I could.

I only wished I could do more.

My family was a large enough one that Watson didn't appear to feel too conspicuous, and all were kind enough to him. My brother-in-law James, also an ex-soldier, soon had him talking of his experiences in Afghanistan, and I was finally able to hear to Watson's story about the tiger cub.

Dinner was delicious, and while Watson did not eat quite so much as he should have, he did partake of at least some of the food, and talked more than I'd heard from him in a while. He even smiled a few times, and once he laughed aloud.

I was certain that of all the Christmas dinners I had spent with friends and family, that year's was by far the most rewarding.

The afternoon slipped away, and soon it was nearly dusk. Watson dismissed himself, saying that he ought to return home. I offered to accompany him, and he accepted my offer, I think gladly.

There were no cabs in sight, so we walked. It wasn't too terribly cold for a December evening, and the walk wasn't a terribly long one.

"I'm glad I came," he said as we arrived at his house. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," I replied.

Watson turned towards his door, then turned back around. "One other thing," said he.

"Yes?" I asked.

"I think I will take that position as police surgeon you mentioned."

"Wonderful!" I said. "We at the Yard always enjoy seeing you. And you're a fine man for the job."

"Thank you, Lestrade," said he, with a smile. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you as well," I returned.

* * *

 **A/N: Merry Christmas to all of you as well, and** ** _enormous_** **thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this December!**


	26. Boxing

**December 26: "Boxing" (from Domina Temporis)**

* * *

 **A/N: Special thanks to Wikipedia and a couple of lengthy car rides for combining to provide me with way more boxing trivia than I'll ever need.**

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was a tolerant woman, but there was one of Sherlock Holmes's activities that she never could stand: bare-knuckle boxing.

The day Holmes trudged up the stairs and into the sitting room with purple bruises around his eye and on his hands and a handkerchief—dripping blood—clapped to his nose, the worthy landlady decided that she would take no more.

"It's bad enough you come home broken and bleeding after hunting down horrid criminals, but to get blood on my rugs because you go and seek out a fight—"

"Fisticuffs is a genuine sbort!" Holmes insisted, wincing with pain. Watson made a hasty retreat up the stairs, though he could still hear the raging argument from the floor below.

"The Queen doesn't think so and neither do I!" Mrs. Hudson replied. The Doctor shook his head as he snatched up his medical bag from its place next to his bed, and headed back down the stairs, where Holmes was apparently beginning an unwelcome history lecture.

"Boxing dates back to the ancient Greeks and Roman tibes, and has had reasonable rules and limitations since 1867. Besides, it requires a good deal bore strategy than a street fight, as well as being buch bore civilized—"

"Civilized?" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. "No mother would be able to take a look at her boy after one of those fights and agree with you!"

Holmes was now standing by the fire, and Mrs. Hudson had advanced several steps towards him, an accusatory finger jabbing in his direction.

"For heaven's sake, Holmes!" Watson broke in, "just agree to clean the blood out of her rug."

Holmes only growled, and threw himself down in his chair.

Mrs. Hudson threw her hands up in a gesture of despair, and stormed out of the sitting room.

"Let me take a look at that," said Watson.

"It's probably fine," Holmes growled.

Watson shrugged, but left his medical kit on a nearby table.

A few hours later, Holmes's injuries had been treated, and the blood had been cleaned from the rugs. Nothing more was said of the matter, and after several weeks had passed Watson and Mrs. Hudson began to think that Holmes had ceased to pursue that particular hobby.

That is, until the day Holmes brought home a portrait of James Figg, the first bare-knuckle champion of England, and hung it over the fireplace.


	27. Fog and Snow

**December 27: "Watson visits Holmes in retirement." (from Aleine Skyfire)**

* * *

 **A/N: I would appear to have fallen behind. Sorry, guys! We'll see if I can catch up…**

 **Special thanks to I'm Nova for a bit of the inspiration in this one. :)**

* * *

 ** _Watson_**

It had had not been a terribly long time since I had visited Holmes, but it was beginning to appear that for Holmes, it was too long. I had been busy with my own medical practice, and had done a good deal of covering for a couple other doctors I knew. Naturally, I dearly loved chances to visit Holmes, but it had not been practical to do so.

In our telephone calls, Holmes had begun to drop heavy hints that he wanted to pay another visit. "I do believe the country air would do you good, old fellow," he had said one day, and "You ought to come and see my bees one of these days. They are doing very well lately." When one evening, he went so far as to say, "I have missed seeing you, you know," then I knew that I had no choice but to do as he wished and visit him.

So it was that I arranged for my practice to be taken care of for a couple of days and headed for Sussex.

A light snow was falling when I left London, and there was snow on the ground surrounding Holmes's cottage when I arrived. Apparently, I had come in time to experience some unusually cold weather, and was glad when I reached the warmth of Holmes's cottage.

"You seem to have brought some bad weather with you, Watson," said Holmes, as we sat by the fire with some warming drinks. "Apparently you are the stormy petrel of snow, as well as of crime."

I have a small laugh. "The weather is not too terribly bad," I said, nodding towards the window. "Look, the snow has already stopped."

"But a fog is rolling in," Holmes replied. "This weather makes me somewhat uneasy."

"I think it unlikely that there will be enough to snow us in," I said.

"No, no," Holmes waved his hand and frowned, brows knotted. "Not that, but rather the crimes that might be committed in this sort of weather."

I rose and walked to the window, and stared out at swiftly darkening sky. The white snow seemed to melt into the foggy sky, leaving no horizon line visible. A slim crescent moon appeared blurred through the fog, casting only a dim light upon the glimmering, snow-covered hills below. It was a beautiful, yet chilling sight to behold.

I noticed Holmes had also risen, and was staring out at the sky with me.

"Well, if a criminal does decide to strike," said I, "and provides a mystery too difficult for the police to unravel, all of those around know where to find you."

"I suppose," said Holmes dubiously.

I have always held that Holmes is a little too paranoid about isolated country houses, even if he does have a valid point that crime is easier to hide when neighbors are miles apart.

But I was glad I had not voiced this opinion, when in the morning, a breathless police detective arrived on the doorstep to tell Holmes that a triple murder had occurred in the night.


	28. Footprints

**December 28: "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—/ I took the one less traveled by, / And that has made all the difference." (from Aleine Skyfire)**

* * *

 ** _Watson_**

More than once during the career of Sherlock Holmes, I had to drag him away from his work to avoid allowing him to work himself into complete exhaustion.

During one of these, in the dead of winter, the two of us stayed with Holmes's old friend, Victor Trevor. After several days, when Holmes had recovered well enough to do so, he, Trevor, and I went for a walk in the forest on the edge of the grounds.

Trevor and I were chatting away, Holmes walking quietly behind us. We had walked for some distance, when I turned to make some comment to Holmes, only to see that he was not there.

"Blast!" I said. "Where's he got to?"

Trevor turned round, then shook his head. "Who knows…"

"Well," I said, "I suppose we'll just have to retrace our steps until we see where his footprints branch off from the main path."

Trevor nodded, and the two of us headed back where we had come.

"I can't believe he still does that sort of thing," said Trevor with a nervous chuckle. "He must be a bit of a nightmare to live with."

"Ha! You don't know the half of it," I replied, and began to tell stories of Holmes's irritating habits.

Trevor commiserated, and shared a few he recalled from Holmes's college days. "Though as irritating as he can be, I hope no harm's come to him."

"So do I," I replied.

Though it took longer than I wished it would, it was no difficult task to find where the footsteps had branched off; the snow had only fallen the night before, so the only footprints in the snow were our own. When we reached this point, we followed the solitary footprints until we reached Holmes, who was standing quietly, staring up at the snow-covered tree branches above him.

"Holmes!" I gasped.

My friend turned round in apparent surprise. "Hello, Watson, Trevor."

"What in heaven's name were you doing, leaving without a word like that?" I asked.

Sherlock Holmes shrugged his thin shoulders. "I thought it might be more interesting this way," he replied. "Following one's own path is generally more interesting than following the masses."


	29. It is Lucky

**December 29: "A cozy fire on a cold day." (from Domina Temporis)**

* * *

 ** _Watson_**

It was terribly cold. The wind whistled through the streets, rattled the windows and doors, and squeezed the outside air in through every tiny crack it could find, rendering it terribly cold inside as well as out.

It was late enough that I really ought to have gone to bed, but two things kept me in my place on the settee in the sitting room. The first was the fire before me, and all the rugs and afghans I had cocooned myself in: I was almost warm, and moving now did not seem like a good plan. The second was that Holmes had not yet come home, and I was eager for news of his most recent case.

There was the sound of a door slamming below, and the unmistakable treat of Holmes's boots upon the stairs.

Something was not right. He'd left in an excited rush earlier, saying that he only had to test one thing and the case would be closed, but now his footsteps were slow and heavy.

My fears were realized a moment later, when Holmes entered the sitting room. He was far paler than was usual for him, and shaking like an aspen leaf in a gale. His hat and coat appeared to be glistening—was that ice?

"Are you all right?" I asked unnecessarily as I threw my blankets aside and rose to my feet.

"Bit cold," he replied, passing a hand over his forehead. "No, no, Doctor, I do not require help."

I was inclined to disagree, but bit my tongue. "Well, go get out of those clothes, before you freeze to death."

Holmes nodded, and handed me his hat and coat. I turned around to put the articles by the fire, and heard Holmes stumble into his bedroom. He appeared to be suffering from hypothermia, but likely not severely. At least I dearly hoped not.

As there was nothing I could do for the moment, and the chill of the room was beginning to settle in on me, I drew my and Holmes's chairs close to the fire, and put most of the blankets I had been using on Holmes's chair. I then poured two glasses of brandy and settled into my own chair. Not long after I had finished this, Holmes shambled back into the sitting room.

"Thank you," he said, as he settled into his chair with the warming blankets. He gave a twitch of a smile and said, "I suppose you are still wondering how I ended up soaking wet."

"The question has crossed my mind," I replied dryly.

"There was a bit of an unexpected struggle—very unexpected, or I should have asked you to come along—which resulted in an even more unexpected swim in the Thames."

"My dear Holmes!" I exclaimed.

"Not to worry, old fellow," he said, taking a drink of his brandy. "Lestrade arrived soon enough to bring me out again. It was lucky that he came when he did."

"I must say I agree," I said, not daring to think of what might have happened otherwise.

Holmes gave a shiver, followed by a violent sneeze. In response to my concerned expression, he smiled wryly. "I suppose it is also lucky I chose to share lodgings with a doctor."

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry…I don't really know why my muse keeps throwing Holmes in the Thames this year.**


	30. Basil of Baker Street

**December 30: "Basil" (from Wordwielder)**

* * *

 ** _Watson_**

One evening, in the autumn of 1890, I decided to call on my old friend Sherlock Holmes. I had been very busy with my practice and married life that it had been a while since I'd done so.

When I arrived, it came as no great surprise that he was not there: one never knew what hours he would be away while on a case. Mrs. Hudson informed me that he said he should be back by six, and as it was only ten minutes to that hour, I decided it was certainly worth the wait.

I settled into my old chair by the fire, and sat quietly for a moment. I had only been seated for perhaps a minute when a distant voice caught my ear.

"…ever shall we do, Basil?" it cried.

"Whatever we do, we cannot do it alone, Dawson," another voice replied.

I frowned, and glanced around for the source of the voice. The room appeared empty, apart from me, and yet there was no mistaking the voices. Unless, of course, I was completely out of my wits.

A moment later, I came to the conclusion that I had indeed lost my mind. Two mice were scurrying into the sitting room, from the direction of hall door, on their hind paws, but not their front ones. This was strange enough on its own, but then I realized they were each in full gentlemen's—albeit tiny—attire.

"What do you intend, then?" asked the shorter, more portly of the small rodents to his companion, as the two slowed their run to a swift walk.

"Consult a detective," the taller mouse replied. "I believe that this time, I may be out of my league."

By this time, I wholeheartedly doubted my senses, and the two mice were just two feet from me.

"Who are you?" I asked, feeling rather ridiculous as I said it.

Both mice gave a start.

"Why, Dr. Watson! I did not know you were coming!" exclaimed the taller mouse. "I am Basil of Baker Street, the only consulting detective of Mousdom, and this is my friend and associate Dr. Dawson."

"Pleased to meet you," I said instinctively, though my mind was reeling. "I—I did not know that there were mouse detectives."

"There are, and Basil is the best around," said the mouse called Dawson.

"You said you are called Basil of Baker Street?" I double-checked, frowning at the taller of the mice, who gave a nod. "Where in Baker Street do you live?"

"221 ½," said Dawson. "Just below your flat, in fact."

"I see," I replied. "Does Holmes know you live there?"

"Of course!" Basil replied.

I gave a nod, then heard the slamming of the door to the street, and Holmes's familiar tread upon the stairs. A moment later, my old friend was in the room.

"Watson!" he exclaimed. "I did not know you were coming. I would introduce you to my new neighbours, but it appears you have already become acquainted." He turned to the mice. "Basil, what brings you and Dawson here this evening?"

"A case," said Basil, "of a very serious and dangerous nature, and a criminal that I believe will affect not only Mousedom, but you humans as well."

Holmes seated himself in his chair, and rubbed his hands together. "Pray, tell me more. I would offer you a seat, but we have no furniture built for your stature."

The two mice sat down on the floor between us.

"Tell me," said Basil, "have you ever heard of the ship known as the Matilda Briggs?"

I shook my head, but Holmes nodded. "I believe I have heard of it once."

Basil looked intently back and forth between Holmes and myself. "What about the Giant Rat of Sumatra?"


	31. Cryptic Note

**December 31: "8, 4, 3, 7, and 2" (from silvermouse)**

 **A/N: Due to what appears to be some sort of technical glitch, all reviews posted to my story during the last two days have come to my email, but have not posted to the Reviews page, and I can't reply to them. I've notified FanFiction's support of this and hope it's soon fixed.**

 **So thanks to Garonne, KnightFury, I'm Nova, Domina Temporis, and Wordweilder for your lovely reviews! (And hopefully everything's soon fixed and they get posted.)**

* * *

 ** _Watson_**

One day, Holmes received a very cryptic note, which contained nothing but five numbers: 8, 4, 3, 7, and 2. There was no signature, nor note, nor anything to identify its meaning or from whence it came.

"What do you suppose it means?" I asked.

Holmes shook his head. "I do not know."

"Perhaps it is simply a joke," I suggested.

"It would be someone with a very unique sense of humour," said Holmes with a chuckle.

"Well, could it reference a book?" I asked. "You know, like Porluck did before the case of the _Valley of Fear_."

Holmes shrugged. "Perhaps."

I pulled the latest almanac from the shelf, but found page 8, nor 84 made much sense when I picked out the corresponding words, and there were not 843 pages. I set it down with a sigh, and saw with some slight surprise that Holmes had pulled a Bible out of a drawer and was flipping through it.

"Well, I thought perhaps the number might refer to book, chapter, and verses," said he. "Ruth is the eighth book, and though short, has four chapters. Let me see… Ah, here is verse three: 'He said to the near relative: Naomi, who has come back from the Mohabite plateau, is putting up for sale the piece of land that belonged to our kinsman Elimelech.' Not very promising."

"No, I am inclined to think not," I agreed.

"What, then, is seven?" Holmes muttered. "'Now it used to be the custom in Israel that, to make binding a contract of redemption or exchange, one party would take off his sandal and give it to the other. This was the form of attestation in Israel.' An interesting bit of historical information, but I do not think it is what we are looking for."

"Could it refer to a date, or a time?" I asked.

Holmes frowned. "August 34th of '72, Watson? Or 34 minutes past eight on the 72nd day of…something or other? I hardly think that likely. Perhaps it is a location, of some sort. Do you know of any where with an address of 843 on a 72nd Street, or a 372 on an 84th Street?"

I shook my head.

Holmes shrugged. "It was just an idea."

"Perhaps we could find another book?" I suggested.

"I think not," Holmes replied.

We sat in quiet contemplation for several minutes, when Holmes gave a sudden exclamation of joy, and sprang to his informational index. "I knew I had seen these numbers before, Watson!" he said.

I followed him, and was surprised to see him digging through an index of American tourist attractions.

"Here it is!" said he. "'Central Park is an urban park in middle-upper Manhattan, New York City. It opened in 1857 on 778 acres of city-owned land, and was expanded to its current size of 843 acres in 1873.' And unless I am much mistaken, there is a point where 72nd Street in New York meets with Central Park."

"Do you suppose some crime was perpetrated there?" I asked.

"Perhaps!" Holmes replied, eyes bright.

At that moment, there was a ring at the bell, and our friend Lestrade was ushered into the sitting room a minute later.

"Do you have any cases on hand at present?" he asked.

Holmes picked up our cryptic note hand held it out to the police detective. "Nothing but this, but it seems promising."

"What do you make of it?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, from what we are supposing, something has or will happen in New York City, where 72nd Street meets Central Park," I said.

"I think that unlikely," said Lestrade.

Holmes and I stared at him curiously, and Lestrade laughed.

"Gregson sent this," he said. "He thought it would be interesting to see what you would do with it."

Holmes growled and threw the paper into the fire. "Confound it, Watson! You were right at the start. A strange practical joke! And a unique sense of humor behind it…that is a perfect picture of Gregson. Well, I suppose I should thank you for informing us before we got too far in our deductions."

"Happy to help," Lestrade replied, with a smile that rather made me think he had known about Gregson's little note and purposefully waited to see what would happen.

And the Scotland Yard Inspectors had the nerve to say that Holmes and I were difficult to handle! To be fair, we were, but they did plenty to keep our lives interesting as well.

* * *

 **A/N: HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!**

 **Thanks to all who have read and reviewed, and a big thanks to Hades Lord of the Dead for putting all of this together!**


End file.
